by Carla Wilson

It’s 1:30 am on a Friday night. A couple of sorority sisters and I are in the middle of a late night booze and munchie meltdown. We need supplies and we need them now. All of us have been burning the midnight oil with some frat boys we met at a party earlier in the evening. Now, back in our dorm, the booze is running low and the sperm is getting bored.

Looking around the room I notice the odd number of boys to girls–at least two for every girl. With supplies dwindling and the girls outnumbered, it’s time to turn up the volume so our guests will hang out just a tad longer.

I turn to Shelly, who’s staking her claim on a lanky white boy who looks like he wandered into a BET made-for-TV movie, and ask, “Hey girl, you want to go on a run?” Shelly nods and then screams into the crowd of drunken revelers, “We’re going to Danny’s everybody.”

There’s still time to catch the liquor department in the local store before it closes at 1:45, but we have to motor. “We need vodka, mixer, chips, pizza & water,” Shelly says as I round the corner in my VW Bug. “And more chocolate. Got to have more chocolate,” I respond. As Shelly and I whip into the lot of Danny’s Liquor Emporium I notice only one vehicle parked in front of the store. I think to myself “Who the hell would be here at this time on a weeknight?”

We live and go to school in a small industrial town and with most of the residents being over the age of 50, lights out is usually around 10 p.m. even on the weekends. It wasn’t an employee’s car, because Jack, who typically works the late shift, doesn’t have a car and rides his bike to work. Still, I wondered.

Shelly and I enter the store and immediately head for the liquor. Shelly picks up a bottle of Absolut and says, “You think this is too expensive?”

I glance at the price and say, “Uh, yeah.” Shelly returns the bottle to the shelf. “Just get the cheap stuff, Shelly. There’s no need to spend what’s left of our allowance on a bunch of noodle heads.” Shelly grabs the cheapest bottle of vodka she can find, while I continue my search for food supplies.

We’re both rushing around the store trying to get what we can before it closes when I turn a corner and suddenly come face to face with an elderly woman I nearly run over. She looks at me, and growls, “Watch where you’re going moron.”

Without missing a beat I counter, “Easy granny.” She rolls her eyes and continues on her journey through the aisles, mumbling something about laxatives.

Shelly and I meet at the check out counter with supplies in hand and give Jack what’s left of daddy’s money. We hop in the Bug and jet home in the dead of night. I tell Shelly the story of the woman and she responds with a grin, “Some people just don’t like being old.”

Back at the party the sisters have paired off with the frats. The rest of the boys dawdle around the kitchen inspecting the remnants of whatever booze and food is left. Shelly and I burst in and yell, “Help has arrived ladies and gentlemen, help has arrived.”

—-

Carla is a writer and student of Journalism living in Nevada. She lives with two geriatric cats and a dog named Fudge.

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